School Uniforms and Much Ado
by shrimpywimp
Summary: Arthur And Francis want nothing to do with each other. (By nothing I mean everything.)
1. Chapter 1: Awful Beginnings

There he was. He stood across the room, leaning in the doorway, hung like a drape off the siding. With a thin frame, and his sweater pulling off him like it was trying to escape—blue eyes grasping every conversation in the room without his mouth even tossing a word. His hair was pulled back—but not the bangs- they hung loosely in his face, no—just the back. Just the frayed ends that usually curled around his neck, and he would always say;

"When my hair is long, it has waves, just like my sister's."

Arthur doubted it, highly. He couldn't even imagine what Francis would damn look like with long hair, let alone curly locks.

But they had similar friends—they've talked before. Had history.

But nothing personal.

But in all honesty, he tried to keep the damn pest as far away from his imagination as he possibly could.

However, it was hard to keep the most popular kid in your boarding school out of your mind—because he was everywhere. He was in the halls, on the teacher's board, his name was scribbled in the girl's bathroom—well, so he had heard, Arthur certainly hadn't been in there any time in the recent past. Or ever.

(Girls didn't like him.)

(And certainly didn't "Invite him into the bathroom to cop a feel before the watch came by, because for _god's sake_, "That's enough Gilbert stop telling me about what- or _who_ you did today.")

And worst of all, he always seemed to be in Arthur's room. He always seemed to be looming in the center of the room like he was their sun and they were simply his planets that rotated around him like some sort of worship. Arthur hoped of course, that he was Pluto. Or at least—he'd like to be exactly 3,670,050,000 miles and six ten-thousandths of a light year away from Francis and his cliché boarding-posse.

(Yes, that is how far Pluto is from the sun.)

(Arthur checked.)

The setup of the school was simple. There was three buildings, and the courtyard. The first building was the girl's dorm, which was fenced off, and you could only enter the dorms with your female I.D. (However, once again- Gilbert had found his way in to Liz multiple times.) Behind that was the riding track and the Girl's swimming pool. The fence went around those too.

Then, the center room was the biggest, which was long and rectangular, simply built. However, it was as big as both of the dorm rooms combined. It had taken Arthur to his Junior year—well, _this_ year to figure out the entire floor plan of the school, it had ridiculous winding hallways that seemed endless in sight—but so easy on paper.

Finally was the boy's dorm, which was fenced as well. It was exactly the same as the girl's just as big, just as tall. This was where Arthur resided—(Duh.) Out back was the various sports fields Arthur never cared for, and the boy's swimming area. All very posh, he assured his parents.

(To put it simply, the center building looked as boring as school was- The perfect metaphor for High School as a whole. While the dormitories were more like mansions, with circular stair cases and drapes—kitchens and maids, it was for only the richest children, of course.)

In essence it sounds impressive, but three years too long can get to you.

–"Right Arthur?"

Arthur's eyes suddenly perked up from his scribbled, his hands clutching the wiring so tight it left marks in his palm. They were met with Gilbert's—crimson eyes peering at him with a grin that looked ever too-… _pleased._

"Pardon?" He sighed gently, releasing the notebook. He felt the other two- Alfred and Francis- staring right at him like he was about to give the Presidential speech.

"I said" He started, his eyebrows furrowing on his pale skin. "You wouldn't mind if we stayed up tonight, right Arthur?"

"I would say yes but of course, it's Alfred's room as well." Arthur raised an eyebrow, resting back into his pillows. He glanced to Alfred, whom simply laughed. Arthur groaned, his eyes locking on Gilbert again. "I'm taking that as a yes. But sadly, Alfred has a English test tomorrow, so it would be wise for him to schedule a time to go to slee—"

"What are you, his mother?" Francis cut him off before he could seem any more concerned, with one hand shifting across his own stomach. Arthur simply tucked his bottom lip in-between his teeth, his eyes—no, his best _glare_- were fixated on Francis.

"Right."

He sunk into his black tee-shirt, his eyes narrowing down at the doodles he had in his notebook. His fingers curled around the pen, eyes wandering to the free space at the top of the page.

_Right._

(He would spend approximately twenty minutes pretending not to listen about their talks of girls, and another thirty ignoring the feeling of eyes that kept hitting him—only to be followed by whispers. He was curious about what they said when they were whispering, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know, either.)

(He also spent ten minutes observing the mannerisms of Francis Bonnefoy, whom might he add to the earlier description- was much more quiet than usual.)

(However, he still seemed to keep crawling into Arthur's imagination.)

* * *

Ever since he was a young boy, Arthur had gotten stomach aches. He couldn't touch any Italian food, let alone any sort of buttery product—or he'd be tossing it up only minutes later. It was unfortunate, but it kept the stalky Briton healthy—or at least, generally in shape.

It was supposedly stressed, or so his doctor told him. And his freshman year had been hell because of this, with the stress of being away from his parents, the pressure of grades and—

He could get sick just thinking about it, oh god.

But it died to about one stomach ache a week- (Not counting the utter anxiety of Finals. During the week of Finals he seemed to only see answer sheets and the bottom of trashcans.)

He'd have a nightmare—resembling a fever dream, and wake up in a sweat, the only sense of reality being his stomach churning like he was going to be sick.

And unluckily for him, it was one of those nights.

He awoke with a startle, the entire room casted with a dark shade of the window. His neck ached, finding himself hunched in the corner of his bunk, knees pulled up to his chest with the notebook still sat upright on his lap. Had he fallen asleep- … He placed the notebook to his side, glancing at the room. Alfred was probably above him on the top bunk—(He heard the snoring.) Gilbert was leaned on the desk, grasping a blanket in a defensive way, and Francis was… curled up in the dirty laundry. (Great.)

He stood, bare feet against the carpet- with long fleece pajama pants pooling over his ankles. He rubbed his wrist, shuffling past the two, and entering their dorm's bathroom. He shut the door quietly, eyes stinging as he flicked on the light.

"Tchnn- God, fuck- That's florescent." He rubbed his eyes even though it was bad for him, leaning against the wall. He pried the medicine cabinet open with one hand, grasping the bottle of "Tums" and putting two in his palm.

"Would you mind shutting the door all the way if you're going to turn the lights on?" A hushed whisper came from the door, and Arthur's whole body tensed. He spun, tums clutched in his hand like coins.

_Who else would it be? _ He thought, staring down the male before him.

_Who else would it be then his Majesty himself?_

"Next time you stay over someone's dorm room instead of your own, find a bed- not a pile of dirty clothes." Arthur spat back at him, quickly moving the sink and pouring water in a plastic rinsing cup. The room fell silent as Arthur put the pink tablets in his mouth, grinding them to dust and staring in the mirror nonchalantly.

He expected Francis to shut the door and leave, however—there wasn't a single movement between the two of them. Arthur's lips were now dusted a light pink from the stomach medication, compared to his pale complexion.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Arthur turned, walking forward, his eyes locking on the blue set that stared down at him.

The silence fell yet again, the sound of the clock ticking around them.

_Tick. _

_ Tick._

"Let me get my bag and my headphones if you're going to keep me up all night." Francis drew his eyes from Arthur's, his shoulders slumping.

_Tick._

___Tick._

He brushed past Arthur, their hands brushing as Francis grasped his bag and started to move to leave again. Arthur shuddered at the feeling of cold fingers grazing his own, but tried to stay still. He didn't look back, he didn't flinch—he stood.

Wasn't Francis just _so fucking_ poetic?

He watched as Francis brisked out with strap gripped in hand.

_I hate you. _

_I hate you so much._

* * *

When he awoke the room was silent except for the shower, no trace of Gilbert or Francis. (Thank god. Not that Arthur didn't like a good morning banter, he was just glad they weren't hanging about.)

He stretched forward, the satisfying feeling of pops, cracks, and muscles bending. He let out a groan, slumping over on his knees after he stretched. He listened to Alfred's horrid singing and chuckled to himself. The room was messy, and Alfred's blankets were hanging down the side of the bed frame. Per usual.

(They had a general agreement that every other day Alfred would get the bathroom to get ready, and Arthur would get the room. The other days, they'd switch places.)

(Flawless—of course. It was Arthur's idea after all.)

Arthur walked to the closet, reaching and picking through the hangers absent mindedly. He pulled the uniform and hummed, glancing over it. It was a white sweater and a white button down to go underneath. Black pants—or rather _dress_ pants, were next. It was a completely standard uniform, per say.

He slid his shirt off his body, the black fabric tossed aimlessly against the dresser. He caught his reflection in the mirror, looking at himself sideways for just a moment. He was short, with no weight—besides a little bit of a pudgy stomach. His hair was messy—a dark blonde, with straggly bangs that hung down in his face over his thick brows. He had eyes that seemed shifted—slitted and angled as if he was always angry—but according to his mother, when he smiled they were wide and crinkled at the edges. Allastor thought that was _girly._

So Arthur did _too._

He carefully slid off his pants, wrinkling the fabric in between his fingers. He folded them and tossed them on the dresser as well, licking the chapped dust from last night—or rather, earlier this morning off his lips. His stomach ache was gone like he predicted, and it'd probably come back tomorrow.

He slid the button down off the hanger, sliding it over each shoulder and buttoning it from top down to bottom. The sound of the shower stopped suddenly, replaced by the steady drip of water, (Along with Alfred's singing being much clearer now that the shower wasn't masking the sound.)

He pulled his sweater over his head, fixing the collar and flattening his shirt down. He grabbed his bottoms and slid them on—hopping on one foot until he got one leg in, and doing the same for the other.

"I'm heading out!" He shouted towards the bathroom, grabbing his bag from the hanger and jacket as well. He shimmied into his jacket, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and exhaling in an exasperated sigh.

He opened the door to a familiar face.

"Hello, Matthew." He spoke with a small smile, overlooking the blonde who stood before him.

Matthew had been one of his only friends for a while now, which had been possibly the only friend he'd ever make. He was quiet, unknowing—a bit oblivious. He had met him in his first year at Alfred's. But once Alfred stopped playing Mario Kart, and started to play Rugby with Francis and Co., he'd stop talking to poor Matthew. Though he was an awkward conservationist, Arthur felt bad—and their friendship… bloomed, so to speak.

"G'morning, Arthur! I brought you one of those pumpkin lattes from downstairs!" He thrusted his hand forward, his mittened hand holding out a skinny foam coffee cup. Arthur took it from him, his eyes softening.

"Thank you." He put the drink to his lips, his hands going pink from the warmth. "Off we go then?"

Matthew nodded silently, starting down the hall. He always seemed so happy—but he acted as if nothing had happened.

Before Arthur had really gotten to know Matthew, he thought that he was a happy go lucky guy! Nothing wrong with that. But the year before this—sophomore year, Matthew had been in the same room as him and Alfred. Alfred took Matthew and a few other guys out on the second to last day of academic calendar, (A fancy way of saying No lessons, or classes for three months.) Something happened and Matthew—almost always seen side by side with Alfred, had come home alone in this emotional wreck. He had no jacket, he was soaked and his body was shaking—not with fear, no—with utter instability. He had practically marched in in a mess, his chest heaving and compulsing with every word, like he had just almost drowned.

_ "I-I messed up, A-art'hthur,"_ The words were still fresh in his mind. _"I really messed up."_

_ He can't breathe_, Arthur thinks. _He hurt himself_, he repeats.

But Matthew only says vague things like:

_ "I can't feel my fingertips." _And, _"We're spinning, we're spinning, and he lets go." _

However, after what seemed like hours, Arthur finally felt it all click. He thought back to how Matthew looked at his roommate, how he eyed Alfred in class, always tried to hide Alfred's history book so he can bring it to him-

And Arthur said,

_ "You love him."_

Matthew didn't talk anymore after that, but Arthur helped him later when he was sick and hunched over the toilet. This wasn't the joyful Matthew he knew, but this was the Matthew he'd never let down.

But the next two days were like a vow of silence, and everything was rushing like a city street.

The first day, with no sign of Alfred— there was not a single word from Matthew as he filed for a new dorm on that next morning; on the second day there was not a single word when Alfred came home at noon to find Matthew's stuff gone.

_ "What happened?"_ Alfred asked.

_ "He moved."_ Arthur replied.

Alfred never told him what happened, whether he knew it happened or not.

Matthew didn't either.

And that was it.

Matthew moved into Francis's dorm with Gilbert, and Arthur visited every day.

Which was the beginning of Francis and Arthur's _history_, (which was mentioned earlier.) But that of course was a story he would put off of thinking about for another day.

He and Alfred hadn't talked since, and Arthur had been damn in the middle of it. Though Matthew got better over the summer- and seemed fine after August- It was October, and he still seemed... _shaken._

And as he watched Matthew walk to the front door, laughing and smiling at those who walked past, he frowned, catching up to him. They stepped outside the dorms, and onto the sidewalk. Arthur glanced over at Matthew, then back to his coffee.

"Thank you," He chuckled lightly. "I just want to thank you again for the coffee."

For a moment they went quiet, the sound of the leaves crunching beneath them. They stood for a moment in the red and orange autumn world, and Matthew turned to him for a moment.

"Just returning the favor."

Maybe they'd both been thinking about that night.

Matthew stared for a moment and picked up the pace again, kids walking around them in a rush to get here and there.

He wouldn't bring it up to his friend ever, but he had thought long about what happened that night since that night, and he had concluded the problem.

_Alfred didn't love him back._

* * *

"Alright class, let's begin."

First class of the day, Shakespeare. Arthur sat in the front row, on the far left, right next to the door. He originally sat next to Matthew, who was in the second row, farthest right next to the windows- But the teacher put him instead next to the door, because he was trusted not to get distracted. (Rather than Heracles, who got distracted at simply a person walking past the door.)

Even though his mind had been somewhere else, he still tried to pay attention to _"Much Ado About Nothing"_—their current reading.

"Before we begin class." The teacher Mr. Greene, stood proud in front of the class, the book itself held in his hand. "Can someone please explain to me, what 'much ado about nothing' may mean? Using your context clues."

Arthur tapped his pencil and looked around for a moment, giving everyone a fair shot at the question. But when none of the bored students raised their hands, the blonde's shot up, with a cocky smirk.

"Yes, Mister Kirkland?" The teacher pointed him out, smiling back as well. (He was the most participant; it was his favorite class after all. Mr. Greene adored his little Kirkland to death.)

"Much ado—ado meaning a bit of a quarrel, a fight, some sort of objection- about nothing. This means, Lots of fighting over nothing particular." Arthur felt prideful as he continued. "You see, from what we've read- Benedick and Beatrice fight constantly, but they hold a love for each other. They make much ado, once again—about nothing. They're accidentally together, despite their constant quarreling. Quite romantic—"

"I don't find it romantic at all." A voice suddenly shot from behind him. Two seats back.

Francis Bonnefoy.

"Arthur is completely wrong—if I may interject, sir." Arthur shot his eyes back as he saw Francis smiling his charming little smile—god damn him and his teacher pet ways. He c-can get away with anything!

"Of course," Greene said. "Feel free to begin discussion."

"Merci, Monsieur." He laughed a crisp laugh, as half the girl's in the room swooned over his _stupid_ accent. "I think it lacks romance completely. Romance is about loving each other, not letting the other cause—ado, was it?"

Arthur sneered, turning his body completely. "What the bloody hell would you know about romance, you just don't understand Shakespeare's romantic genius! He's just not conveying your mucky idea of love, so what?"

"Please, if you knew a single thing about love, you'd be up there teaching Romeo and Juliet- Kirkland."

"I have a name, you twat—"

The teacher cleared his throat then, leaving Arthur midsentence. All heads turned from the little fight, towards Mr. Greene. He simply motioned Arthur to turn back around by twirling his finger—and Arthur obeyed immediately. He set his book down, closing his eyes.

"You two sure do make much ado about nothing." He muttered in a sense of distaste, earning a room full of hushed snickers, besides Arthur and Francis of course. "Please turn to page twelve, class."

_Much ado about nothing?_

Hmph.

_All the "ado" is his fault anyway._


	2. Chapter 2: Ugly Repurcussions

**Before I get ahead of myself, I would really like to push for reviews. I'm working on the way I write, and I would love some constructive criticism! I have trouble with certain aspects of writing, and some feedback would be amazing. 3**

* * *

_**In this chapter, I focused heavily on the friendship between Matthew and Arthur, (And even Alfred,) And building back-story between the three. I apologize for the lack of FrUk, but I need to get a basis set up, (Because it will come in play later. Wink wink.)**_

_**The next chapter will almost be completely Francis and Arthur based- but for the sake of the plot-line, I needed to really push Arthur and Matthew's friendship, along with Francis and Matthew's ect. ect.**_

_**But as a heads up, this story is going to manly focus on FrUk, but definitely have side plots that will intertwine with the main plot. **_

* * *

The rest of the class was stares and backwards glares, with Matthew staring between the two nervously. And oh did Arthur swear—did he _swear, _if that French fuck didn't stop clicking his stupid pen, this class room was going to look like the end of Macbeth.

But Greene kept rambling, his booming voice filling the room with Beatrice's and Bendick's pitiful little banters, and stupid little quarrels here and there. Would it kill Ben to be a little romantic?

He had spaced out staring down at his notebook, only to almost have a heart attack when the tinny noise of the bell rang out.

"And remember class! I'll be…" The teacher's voice drifted out of his ears and into mush as he exited the classroom, his eyes catching—_Francis's._ He quickly turned his head, letting out a deep groan.

He stomped down the hall, only to hear the sound of clunky snow-boots chasing after him.

"A-Arthur, c'mon, wait up!" He turned, looking face to face with Matthew- who seemingly had gotten stuck behind the group of people clogging the door.

"Ah—"Arthur sighed, letting a small smile creep onto his face. "Sorry, I just wanted to get out of there because of how cold it was—"

"Because of Francis, you mean."

Matthew looked a bit sheepish as he said this, fixing his hoodie. Arthur's pupils sunk to the ground, murmuring a bitter; _"Yeah."_

"I don't know why you two hate each other," The Canadian began, starting to walk along with Arthur. "You're my two best friends, and it sucks having to choose! Getting know Francis, he's not such a bad guy."

Matthew smiled over at Arthur expectantly, only for Arthur to shrug in response. He doubted that, but he didn't want to hurt Matt's feelings.

Matt was a nervous little thing—you needed to sugar coat for him. And somehow, Arthur—the most honest, peppered, and feisty student in the school, had somehow found himself enjoying the company of Matthew's nonchalant, happy little world.

It was a good contrast.

"I gotta' go, Arthur, I've gotta' get to Chem' class or I'll be the next dissection. Meet by the stand for lunch?"

He watched Matthew walk off, waving him off as he turned to his way again.

(Arthur spent Math laughing. It was funny, he wasn't sure if Matthew was aware that Chemistry didn't have dissections—that was Biology.)

* * *

_"artie dude u can see strait down the spanish teach's shirt if u look hard enouff"_

After his mathematics class, he found himself in Spanish.

(How unfortunate, I know.)

The teacher was tall, curvy, and loud. However, Arthur found himself bored with the concept of foreign girls.

(Unlike the rest of the oogling, drooling boys, who had found themselves star-struck with the concept that no, Ivan's sister, did NOT have the biggest boobs in the entire grade.)

Even so, they were allowed to pick their seats, and he was jammed next to none other than Alfred, and even better—Yong Soo.

(Quick lowdown on Yong. He was brilliant to the point that it was almost mental, but he'd be ridden with a terrible case of "Korean-swag,"—or so Arthur had been told. He wore his tie loose; he combed his hair back and held it with clips, and even went far enough to carry some K-pop bag to hold his books.)

(Unfortunately, the ladies loved it.)

He was just as damn obnoxious as Alfred, and they were friends too.

But the note he had just received, (Mentioned earlier. The one about the boobs.) had been slid over by his blonde companion. Though he was planning on throwing it out, Alfred gave him a look like-

_"C'mon man."_

So underneath his friend's incessant scribbling he wrote in perfect print—(He'd never grasped cursive, surprisingly. He found it a hassle.)

_ "I'm uninterested in our teacher's cleavage, Jones. I'm more interested in why you spelled strait without a 'ght'."_

He slid it back, almost instantly getting a response.

_"Fagg."_

Arthur raised his eyebrows, looking over at Alfred. Alfred snickered, motioning to his chest as if he had breasts.

Arthur crumpled the note, standing and tossing it into the trash. He sat back down, slumping against the crook of his elbow and staring intently at his pencil, wiggling it in front of his face.

He officially hated Spanish.

* * *

Although he never thought he could, he made it through his next two classes—to sixth period. He felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders as the bell run out in his 5th, (His least favorite class, Home Ec. He always burnt his damn food!) As he raced out of the room, his books clutched to his chest. He headed straight to his locker, flinging it open and shoving his things in. He pulled out his books for his last two classes, grabbing his jacket and sliding it off.

It was green, with fur around the hood, and pockets that could hold just about anything you could fit in there.

(Usually, however, it was his hands.)

Lunch with Matthew was something he'd missed—and when the incident over the summer had occurred, it was lunch with Alfred. And Gilbert.

And _him._

Matthew was the only bearable person in the school besides Kiku, (Whom he never saw any more due to Kiku being a grade below them,) and he had missed the fall air to go with it.

As he stepped outside, he felt the crisp air in his nose, the smell of coffee and the sight of oranges and yellows casted around the school made him calm. Sweaters, hot chocolate—it was where Arthur belonged!

He walked out into the circular courtyard, passing by picnic tables, and people talking—walking up to the usual stand.

It was around the corner, almost near the gate of the girl's dorms. And god, it was worth the walk on the weekends from one end of the grounds to the other—this place had better coffee than any coffee he had ever graced himself with. (The had donuts too! Wow!)

Ludwig ran it, an upperclassman. He didn't have any sort of allowance from his parents so he got himself a school job, working at a little coffee cart in the middle of nowhere. Ludwig spent four years of his life working there and to this day—he still complained that they stuck him so far away from the actual school building on purpose.

"Afternoon, Beilschmidt." Arthur said with a contempt grin, his eyes wide with the excitement of finally getting to eat.

"Hello. Arthur." Was the response. Short, almost angry—but not at Arthur. He had a way of speaking so no one could read him, but at the same time—they were afraid to ask how he was feeling.

It was brilliant, might Arthur comment.

"Can I have two Pumpkin Spice, a glazed donut, and a Boston crème?" Arthur muttered as he reached for his wallet, pulling two fives out and lying them out on the table.

"Yuhumm." Ludwig mumbled back, reaching into the counter and pulling out the two donuts, putting them in a bag, and turning to get his coffees. He poured two from the machine, setting one down—and filling the other.

He picked both up, smiling with the bag of donuts between his teeth like a dog with a bone.

"Thank you! Keep the change!"

(No response.)

(But he did keep the change.)

He wormed his way to the tree that sat in the courtyard, setting their things down at the picnic table. Still no sign of Matthew. He waited—eating his donut and watching the people walk past, and talk to their friends. It was an odd ecosystem they had in this little Boarding School. But somehow—no matter how much he complained, Arthur loved it. Despite all the assholes, it had great teachers—and it felt safe.

Arthur liked to feel safe.

Closed in the walls of the school.

Safe.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden pull of weight at the other side of the table, and Arthur looked up in question.

Lucky for him, Matthew was sitting there, and not some "asshole" as mentioned earlier.

"I-I'm sorry I'm late," He spoke quickly, head down. "I forgot—" Heaving breath, "That-" Loud exhale, "We had to give—" deep inhale, coffee snatch, "A speech in—" Sip, "Career Class."

Matthew looked stuck with horror, but Arthur only chuckled warmly.

"It's fine, I was busy thinking anyway."

Matthew smiled.

Arthur smiled.

They went quiet.

Arthur finished his donut before he even touched his coffee, and picked it up in his hand just to feel the warmth. His pink fingertips went a pleasing red when the cold skin made contact, pale knuckles and knobby wrist all lightening as the heat of the plastic cup moved through him.

The silence was broken by muttering, and the sound of the picnic table creaking below squirming legs.

"Are you alright?" Arthur laughed, looking up questioningly.

"Oui—I mean, yes! I just—I'm practicing." Mattie responded sharply, his hands shaking where he gripped the paper.

"Matthew," Arthur began, finally sipping his coffee, letting out an 'mmhm,' before continuing to talk. "I'll be there, you know. You don't have to worry. If you mess up, just keep going. You'll be fine."

…

Silence again.

Arthur twiddled his thumbs, setting his drink down and straightening out his back.

"I'm sorry about everything that happened before, I –"

"Don't."

Arthur complied, shutting himself up by drinking compulsively. He felt the hot liquid sting his tongue, but he knew if he put the cup down he'd have nothing to occupy with.

He spent the rest of the forty-five minute lunch break burning his tongue, and listening to Matthew practice.

_They didn't say a single word from then on._

_(Arthur spent Biology worrying about Matthew.)_

* * *

And finally, the class had come. Careers. All juniors were required to take this class to prepare them for College prep in senior, but Arthur thought they should call it "Stress prep." Because all this talk about future, and jobs—it scared him shitless. It made his stomach act up, so he knew—he _predicted_ that this class would be an ulcer waiting to happen.

But he felt worse for his friend, Matthew—poor thing wasn't the presenting type. However, Alfred got to go first.

But as he sat down and the bell rung to begin class, the Teacher seemed to be dead set on finishing all the presentations by Friday.

(The essay was about what they did over the summer, and how it relates to what you want to do in the future.)

(Basically you had to bullshit everything, but Arthur being the diligent student he was—went into deep detail, and he knew his would run a strong 3 minutes long, if not longer.)

"Okay. The lineup for today is Fitzgerald-?" The teacher began, looking around the class.  
Suddenly, the room filled with snickers.

"It's Alfred. That's my middle name." The American looked flustered, sitting in the back row with his feet up "They got it wrong on the roster."

Arthur let out a laugh, not a snicker. He remembered, the first time they met, freshman year.

He was timid, walking in in his sweater vest and khaki pants, smiling.

_"Ah, is this room thirty? F-Fitzgerald and Matthew?"_ His accent was thick back then, nearly a Cockney accent, but just not as strong.

And the most amazing thing happened.

They both laughed.

Looking back, it wasn't as amazing. He remembered getting flustered actually—but now that he thought about it-… that was when they were all happy. The laughter was fresh in his ears as he heard Alfred mutter—

_"For god's sake, it's Alfred! Why did they put my middle name?"_

Suddenly, sadness came over him in the class room.

(He wondered. Was that the moment they became friends? Did Matthew love Alfred for his laugh, and his snarky tune? Did they think about that, the first time they met?)

(Why didn't that last forever?)

"Sorry- Alfred Jones. Then we'll have Ivan Bragnaski- Matthew Williams..." She went down the list, feeling relief when his name wasn't called. He wasn't ready; the day had been too stressful for him to give his speech just yet. But he knew he'd have to go tomorrow.

Bummer.

Alfred stood when she finished, his letterman jacket over his uniform brushing against Arthur's books as he walked by. However, Matthew kept his head down. He couldn't even look at Alfred.

"What I did this summer. By me, of course." Alfred smiled, receiving a couple cheers from his annoying group of jocks who sat around Alfred's empty seats.

"My summer started out by going to Yong's parent's place for a week, and spending it with a bunch of Korean babes. Which was cool, but it did not match the uh- late night activities." He made a vulgar motion or two, the whole class laughing until—

"That's enough, Mister Jones."

Arthur glanced to Matthew who was still reading over his paper, and then back at Yong, who was whispering and taking credit for any sort of perverted story Alfred was hinting at.

"And when I came back, I went to this wicked party and-…" Suddenly, the room went into a deep nothing. Matthew's shoulders visibly tensed in the corner of Arthur's eyes, and Alfred paused for a moment, his chest heaving under his layers of uniform.

_He was talking about that night._

"And then then it was my birthday a week or two later! I got a car for when I leave here in two years, and two-hundred spending money." He regained his usual smile, eyebrows lifting. It was so fake. It was _so fake._

"And this entire summer was preparing me for when I become rich and famous, and have money and Korean babes. This in short, is how it'll affect my career."

The room erupted into applause, and "Woo's" and name chants began, as Alfred walked back to his seat.

The teacher calmed them down, and the next one went up, but Arthur couldn't stop thinking about why everyone couldn't just get along. Why? Why didn't Francis just butt out, and Alfred just be normal and Matthew just be _okay?_

He couldn't stand this tension—he couldn't stand it.

And all he did was watch.

(He felt useless.)

"Matthew Williams?"

Arthur was shocked to hear the teacher say this name, as it felt like he had only been lost in his thoughts for seconds- but no, it had been minutes.

(He had to stop doing that.)

His friend shuffled up, red hoodie and pink cheeks. The first think he did was stand tall. Second thing he did was look at Arthur. The third thing he did, was smile.

He was going to be alright.

"H-Hello, my name is Matthew Williams." The room was dead silent, compared to the cheering Alfred had got. "And this summer—Well, it was kind of tough. In June, they moved my room- But I got to room with a friend, so it was okay."

_Ah_, Arthur thought, _He was just going to skip over every last bit of that night._

"But after that, I left the school to visit everyone back in Canada! I even got to play with our town's hockey team- which is mostly what I want to be when I get older. I'm really good at hockey, you know. I even made friends with the coach! He's a very nice man and we got along—so he introduced me to everyone—"  
And then, it happened.

"Yeah, you probably did 'get to know him', you fuckin' queer."

Laughter.

… Suddenly, Matthew's expression faded, and Arthur felt his stomach churn. He didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to see the face. He knew. He knew that voice.

"E-Excuse me?" Matthew looked suddenly sick, his face pale and green—in all the wrong places.

"You heard me." Arthur turned, staring at Alfred, who sat leaned back, his entire crew snickering. "You probably got to know the coach pretty well, because I don't know any coach that would let a fucking faggot onto their team unless they were queer too."

The room went silent. The teacher was speechless.

Matthew didn't move, but the green began to outweigh the pale.

Arthur couldn't speak, his lips bound by the sickness rising in his throat.

The blonde dropped his papers, turning and walking straight out of the room. Everyone died into the nothing again, only for Arthur to immediately shoot up.

"Sit down, Mister Kirkland." The teacher suddenly snapped at Arthur, voice wavering.

"You're not going to do anything?!" Arthur swallowed any sort of sick he had felt earlier, his eyes wide with rage. "You're not going to do anything about what just happened!?"

"Calm down Arthur, you don't have to be such a prick about your boyfriend getting upset and going to cry to his pillow." Gilbert shook his head at the English boy, his voice playful- or even spiteful.

"BOTH OF YOU." The teacher stood, and Arthur slowly sunk into his seat as she spoke. "I will talk to you," She motioned to Alfred, "And Mister Williams tomorrow."

For the rest of the class, Arthur sat. Sat in anger. And the rage built.

He felt sheer—sheer heated anger build in him like a cup overflowing with boiling water.

And the bell rang.

He watched as they all left, and followed after, last.

And though he tried to control himself, he saw Alfred out by the lockers, acting cocky—acting like some _fucking hotshot._

And in his moment of blinded rage, he walked right up to him.

"Arthur, you got pretty mad in there- It's just Matthew, he—"

Before the blonde could finish, Arthur slammed him back—with a new found rage. He pulled his arm back, coiling at the elbow, and sending his balled fist forward. There was a thunk against Alfred's face, right into his cheekbone. All of Alfred's friends suddenly backed up, yelling and shouting.

Arthur felt his knuckles throabbing, coated in something—blood? Spit, hopefully.

Alfred stood, grabbing Arthur and pulling him up—their foreheads pushed together in a slam.

"What the fuck is your problem." Alfred's breath was like knives into Arthur's nose, did this kid floss?

"Matthew is your friend, Alfred." Arthur spat, his teeth clenched. "If you say anything to him like that again, I swear to god I'll end you. I'll ruin you."

The room around them was quiet, and then Alfred let go.

Alfred stared at Arthur, shaking his head.

"Get the fuck away from me."

_And he did._

* * *

He felt his stomach writhing, and he could feel the tears in his eyes. Why was he crying? Matthew was probably shattered—All because of—god, his name made him sick. He walked as quick as he could to the boy's dorm building, ignoring anyone who even bothered to say hello to him. Sure, he'd apologize later—but there was more important things on his mind.

He finally made it to the door, hands shaking under woolen mittens to open the door. He raced through the lobby, boys watching the game looking over at him in question. When he made it to the stairs, he heard;

"Arthur, want to come watch rugby with us? It's not even past the opening ceremony—" He looked back, smiling at the boys who sat on the couch.

"I'm sorry. Maybe tomorrow." He nodded to them, and they all seemed a bit thrown off by this. (Arthur was known for his brother—Brett, who played for rugby in a higher league. He never missed a game.)

He started up the stairs again, walking down the hall briskly to Matthew's dorm.

What would he say to Matthew? What could he say?

He stared at the white board, with something in French scribbled on it—His nervousness escalating. Everything was happening so fast-!

He leaned on the wall across from the door, covering his face in his hands.

Should he tell Matthew sorry? Tell him that he hit Alfred?

Should he—

"Ah, do you need something?" Suddenly, a smooth voice came from the doorway, which Arthur responded to by promptly jumping and turning in embarrassment. (He must of looked bloody mad squirming and leaning on the wall like that.)

He glanced up, looking face to face with Francis, whom had his hair pulled back into a short ponytail—(Or Arthur thought, "Whats-the-use-if-it's-that-short", ponytail.) and a toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

_Be civil. For Matthew._

"Nothing, Just looking for Matthew, he had an incident earlier and-… How did you know I was out here?"

"I heard banging on the wall, I thought maybe the freshman were causing a ruckus again."

_"Ah."_

_"Yeah."_

They found themselves staring everywhere but each other, uncomfortable in the idea that they were actually forced to deal with each other in this point in time, rather than hide behind insults and fancy words like _"ado."_

"Is he—"

"In the shower."

…

Arthur laughed a bit, only to receive a chuckle in return.

"I just was worried about him, some kids were being rude to him earlier." Arthur raised his eyebrows, trying to shake off the laugh. Damn this Bonnefoy. Everyone else can think you're great, but you're not. I see through you.

"I know—He came in here and grabbed his inhaler. I had to calm him down, but he didn't tell me what happened or anything. He just said he needed to get in the shower because he felt sick, so I let him go." Francis took the toothbrush from his mouth, sniffling nonchalantly.

"I would like to come in." Arthur stated flatly. Francis responded by smiling and stepping aside.

"What are you, a vampire? You can come in, you don't need an invitation."

(The joke here, note, is that vampires cannot come inside of a home without invitation. Arthur found this funny, oh—very funny. But he did not laugh. He may of shook his head. He may of let out a snort. But he did not laugh.)

(He laughed.)


End file.
